


falling through a window

by guardianoffun



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Serious Injuries, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22533457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianoffun/pseuds/guardianoffun
Summary: “No, don’t say anything,” he slurred against the pillows. “You don’t get to tell me off for this, you’re just as bad."Peter Jakes will not be lectured on self-preservation by Morse. Even if he did fall out of a window.
Relationships: Peter Jakes/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	falling through a window

**Author's Note:**

> title is a bad play on DEH's waving through a window lol sing it, much more fun.
> 
> i was bored of torturing morse decided jakes deserved some for a bit lol. mostly written because i like the mildly dopey, drugged up on painkiller moments, they're fun. I also like writing in a mildly funny tone so like hope that showed through lol
> 
> WARNINGS for descriptions of injuries and broken bones though no in too much detail

For once in his life, Morse wasn’t the one running into the line of fire. Jakes could count that as a blessing, mostly because there was precious else  _ good _ about his current predicament. He’d taken down the suspect, knocked him out cold in fact, but it was somewhat dampened by the excruciating pain in his left arm. Fire radiated out from some part of his forearm, somewhere he didn’t care to look, because if the dampness of his shirtsleeve was anything to go by, he was bleeding quite badly. 

Okay, maybe the only reason the suspect was down was because Jakes had wrestled him out of an open window. Perhaps he should not have tried to catch the drainpipe as he slid, because in the end doing so had nearly wrenched his arm from his socket and when his fingers gave way it was his elbow taking the brunt of his fall. Somehow his head had survived, though as he pulled himself upright he wished for the sweet unknowing of unconsciousness. It fucking  _ hurt _ . 

With slow, groggy movements, he managed to get his legs out from under himself, and sit upright. Doing so made the world spin in a way he was unfamiliar with, and it made his stomach roll as colours and sounds swirled around him. 

One recognisable sound cut through it though, the deep booming voice of his DI, from somewhere above. 

“Jakes where’d you- Christ!” 

There was a hand on him then, at his shoulder and he had to bite back a scream. It felt like every bone in his arm was trembling, shaking with enough speed to shatter and good  _ fucking  _ lord did it hurt. 

“Sir, it hurts,” he groaned as he let his head fall between his knees, arm cradled to his chest. Thursday barked out an unamused laugh. 

“Yeah, no bloody wonder, you pillock. Why’d you follow him out?” he asked, gentle movements betraying the angry tone in his voice. Jakes turn to laugh then, a high pitched warbling sound. 

“Didn’t mean to, did I? He  _ pulled  _ me!” he lifted his head long enough to scowl at the sprawled form of their suspect, allowing Thursday a chance to ease his arm out from him. It pulled a long string of imaginative curses from Jakes, and then Thursday tried to make him stand. The world exploded in a painful wave of red and white, and Jakes was left with the terrible feeling he might have started bawling into his bosses’ chest. 

The next few moments were blessedly blurry though, if he did make a show of himself, Thursday never mentioned it again. He remembered after blinking himself awake as he was pushed into Thursday’s car, mumbling something about being alright to drive, and then blacking out again to the sound of Thursday  _ really  _ laughing. 

By the time he really knew what was going on he was laid out on starched linen at Cowley General, shirt cut to tatters as some pretty nurse peeled the bloodied clothing away from him. He could have cried all over again at the loss of such a nice shirt, but in fairness he would never have got the blood out anyways, so perhaps it was a merciful death. At least his mourning gave a little distraction from what was about to happen, as he was left cold and shivering on the bed as the nurse left him to the doctor’s mercy. 

The man spoke with unnervingly calm tones as he told Jakes the breaks to both his ulna and radius, whatever those were, were severe enough to warrant surgery. He had been disinclined to believe him, and been ready to shout as much, until the doctor eventually persuaded him to look at his broken arm, and Jakes nearly started crying yet again. 

Perhaps seeing it just meant the pain reappeared tenfold, but Jakes had yet to realise the extent of his injuried arm. Not that he was any sort of medical professional, but it didn’t seem right that that much bone was  _ outside _ of his body. The nurse reappeared then, an IV bag in hand, but it hardly seemed necessary, because for what felt like the thirtieth time that afternoon, Jakes’ head swam and he passed out. 

Waking, some five hours later was almost blissful. Whilst sleep wore off, whatever painkillers they had pumped him with had  _ not _ . He felt boneless, a darn sight better than earlier - which had felt, if anything, like a too-much-bones problem - and so wonderfully warm and soft. He rolled his head, enjoying the light wooshing sensation doing so brought. It was like being just the right side of tipsy, the peak right before the next shot and inevitable fallout. It felt very, very nice for a while. Then he opened his eyes and found himself staring at a rather pissy looking Morse.

Not that Morse didn’t often look pissy - he did - but an exceptionally pissy Morse. He had that hard set to his jaw like he had been chewing on an idea for ages, and was getting ready to spit it out so Jakes hefted his working hand from the blankets to stop him before he started.

“No, don’t say anything,” he slurred against the pillows. Those drugs really did a number on a person didn’t they? 

“You don’t get to tell me off for this, you’re  _ just  _ as bad,” he said, and that managed to make Morse pause for a second. The faintest flicker of amusement crossed his face. 

“Peter, you jumped out of first-floor window,” Jakes groaned loudly, waving his right hand in Morse’s face. 

“No, no - I was pulled out, actually. Get yer’ facts straight constable,” he berated, the fire already escaping him. He was so tired suddenly. Morse’s head tilted, and it felt rather like Jakes had tilted with it, some giddy feeling in his chest sparking up as Morse cracked a smile. 

There was a hand in his hair then, and he wanted to shake it out, stop it messing up the sleek look he had spent an hour perfecting but -  _ oh  _ did that feel good. They were warm fingers, curling through his hair, a gentle thumb rubbing his temple. He decided, as two fingers found the knot of muscles at the base of his skull, that he would let this happen, just this once. 

Yet again, Peter Jakes fell asleep to the laughter of one of his colleagues. 

Eventually, after a few false starts, Jakes awoke properly. 

The warm numbness of the morphine was replaced with the dull, faded ache of a slowly healing arm. The bedsheets felt less smooth and soft, more scratchy and uncomfortable, especially as he realised he was in nothing more that a nightgown, and some rather uncomfortable underpants he was quite sure were not his own. Cracking an eye open and glancing around the enclosed section of the ward, he realised it was rather dark, and that he was alone. The curtains had been pulled around and his bedside light left on, but otherwise there was no sign of anyone else. It made sense, he supposed - visiting hours here were always strictly enforced. It could hardly be nine, but the whole ward was quiet. He couldn’t deny that he was a little disappointed; Morse had such a knack for disobeying the rules had half-hoped he would still be here now. He supposed he’d have to wait till tomorrow, when he could go and crash his flat after work. They’d been seeing each other just long enough he felt comfortable with disturbing Morse’s evening, not quite with turning up on his doorstep this late at night.

Before he could make any further decisions, the curtain rustled and a nurse poked her head around. 

“Awake? Good, let’s check that arm of yours Sergeant Jakes,” she said, all business as she manoeuvred his broken arm up from bed. He only noticed as she did so, what had been making him feel quite so off balance; the whacking great cast that ran all the way from elbow to palm, enough room cut for his thumb but little left for any real movement. The sweet looking nurse shook her head as she examined him, explain softly. 

“You’ve done yourself a bit of mischief there, mister. Broke your arm in three places, and that wrist too.” He winced at the memory. 

“How long,” he croaked, not realising just how dry his throat was. The nurse lent across him to a jug and glass beside his bed and poured him a drink. 

“You’ll be in that oh, six weeks at least. Provided you’re sensible with it though, you’ll get full mobility back. Probably going to scar though,” she said looking sad for a moment. He wondered if she had been the one to dress him, if she had seen his back. He pushed back those thoughts, sighing loudly to distract himself. 

“How about in here, how long have I been... “ he waved his good hand around in a vague gesture. That got a small chuckle out of her. 

“A few hours, you’re probably feeling better now. A bit sore no doubt?” 

That was Jakes turn to snort. 

Checkup complete, the nurse smiled at him as she slid his chart from the end of his bed. 

“Well, you’re all good, as far as we’re concerned. You can stay the night if you want, but that’s your lot of the good stuff,” she pointed a pen towards the now empty IV stand. “I’d advise a cab home, though. Night like this, nothing beats your own bed.” 

Truer words had never been spoken; Jakes was not a hospital fan to begin with. Any reason to dodge out early, he was up for. The nurse nodded, walked off to arrange discharge papers as Jakes eased himself out of the bed. For a moment he wondered if he was expected to leave dressed like this, considering his shirt was now labeled medical waste, but his eyes caught on a neatly folded pile of clothes on the chair. 

As he pulled through it, movements slow and clunky with his arm in plaster, he recognised them as his own trousers, and shoes, the ones he had worn today, but the loose fitting tee was new. Plain blue, with a darker blue jumper to match, button up instead of pullover. Not his clothes, he thought, but not wholly unfamiliar. His breath caught. Morse’s clothes. 

After a moment staring, he realised it made the most sense of course; nobody had spare keys to his house, and Morse wasn’t the sort to go baring in anyways. It made more sense he’d just picked out a few things from home and lent them him, but still, it made some part of Jakes a little fuzzy. The nurse reappeared just as he was struggling with the buttons on his trousers, still rather shirtless. 

It was a slightly peculiar sensation, being dressed by a pretty lady rather than undressed but he was grateful for the help, he wouldn’t have got the shirt on alone. A sling was tied around his arm, keeping it held firmly in place, and the jumper sling over both shoulders in a look that, despite the injury, he still managed to pull off quite handsomely. 

As the nurse picked out the sheets he had to sign, he ran a few fingers through his hair, into something a little neater, but gave up when he caught sight of himself in a reflection on a window. He looked a state, bleary eyes and messy hair, mismatched clothes that were ever so slightly off from his usual look, and a stonking great cast hiding in the folds of the fabric. He would have to handle the fashion disaster for later, now he just wanted to go home. 

A few short moments later and he was loping out of the ward into the harsh light of the hospital corridors. Outside was dark, and a little cold for the time of year, but already through the doors he could see the pinprick of light from across the road, the taxi rank not too far a walk from here. Pushing out of the heavy doors and taking the front steps two at a time, he was so engrossed in his walk across the carpark, he almost collided with a body jogging directly towards him. 

“Oi, watch it- Morse?” 

It was his constable, looking a little red around the ears, lit up in the glow from the front of the hospital. He had that soft smile on his face again. 

“Hello,” he said quietly, glancing Jakes up and down. “You off somewhere?” 

Jakes nodded, fumbling with his good hand for a cigarette, and cursing the other when it failed to steady his lighter. Morse’s finger intercepted his, flicking the light and holding it till he could light it. 

“Yeah, home. Discharged myself, there’s not much more they can do,” he said, trying desperately not to ask the question on the tip of his tongue.  _ Had Morse been waiting out here this whole time?  _ He was a detective, he didn’t need to ask it. Morse was shivering, no doubt from sitting on a cold set of steps waiting for Jakes to reappear, on the  _ off chance  _ he might appear tonight. His pink nose and tired eyes spoke of a man who had perhaps eventually stood up and gone to nod off in the seat of his car, woken by every set of footsteps to pass his window. When Jakes glanced behind him, to the Jag parked a few feet away, the crumpled scarf on the dash confirmed that line of thought. So he  _ had  _ been waiting. The only question was why. Jakes couldn’t find it in him to ask though, just waited as Morse reached out a slow hand, to grab at Jakes’ free fingers. Perhaps that was why. 

“Well come on then,” he said quietly. Jakes was enchanted by the way his breath curled in wisps in the night air. “Let’s get you home.” Morse lead him to the car, in a peaceful sort of quiet, but Jakes stopped him before he could open the door. He wrapped his good hand around Morse’s waist, and with careful, steady precision brushed the tip of his bound fingers against Morse’s cold cheek. 

“Thank you,” he said thickly, perhaps an effect of the drugs he told himself. Morse shrugged, tried to look away but he held him fast. 

“You’d do the same for me,” he said lamely, and Jakes rolled his eyes. 

“That’s not the point; you did this, for me. Thank you. Just accept it, will you?” 

Morse smirked and went to bat his hand away, so Jakes leaned forward instead, kissed Morse before he realised what had happened, sort and sweet, and it left the most confounded look on the poor man’s face. Jakes almost had to laugh. 

“Now come on, Morse; let’s go home.” 

He hadn’t specified which, but he suspected it didn’t matter whose house they returned to. The nurse had not been quite right, he thought; one bed was as good as any other. It was the company that made all the difference. 

* * *

Jakes had thought breaking his arm was the most painful thing he’d ever done, but as it turned out healing from one was just as bad, if not worse. It was a bone deep ache, befitting the injury, like a throbbing in his arm that just would not stop, no matter how still he lay. Padding the cast with blankets did just as little as wrapping frozen peas around it, not to mention his arm itched like the devil. 

All this in the first hour after they arrived at Jakes’ home. Morse eyed him from the doorway as he brought in a wobbling tray of tea. Jakes scowled at him as he shook his head disparagingly. 

“Like you’re a better patient than me,” he spat, perhaps a little more unkind than he meant. Morse  _ tsked  _ and set the tea down on the coffee table between them. 

“If this is what you’re like now, I dread to imagine how you’ll be in a few weeks,” he said, settling into the seat beside Jakes. “It starts really smarting then.” Jakes growled. 

“Shut up,” he said for lack of anything constructive. He hurt too much to think beyond the next few words. Morse simply nodded, eyes drifting to the television, showing some late-night film. Drivel, really, but it filled the room. Jakes felt a twinge of guilt. He’d soured the mood by being arsey, and now Morse was doing that pinched look of his. Jakes hadn’t the energy to apologise properly, so he leant in a little closer to Morse. 

Morse pointedly ignored his shuffling, taking long sips of his drink, obnoxiously loudly. Jakes considered his next move, timed it for when the cup went to rest on the arm of the chair. Then he dropped his head down onto Morse’s shoulder. 

He felt Morse’s shoulders shift, but he wasn’t knocked off. 

“Sorry, are we?” Morse hummed. Jakes couldn’t see his face, but he felt Morse turn his head and his chin brush his temple. He watched as Morse’s finger looped perfect circles around the rim of the cup. 

“Yeah,” he said quietly. All his usual spark and witty banter had seeped from him. He was just tired and hurting. 

“Good thing I’m the forgiving kind,” Morse murmured, pressing a quick kiss to his head. 

“Bullshit,” Jakes said, grinning. He returned Morse’s affection by kissing his shoulder through his shirt, burrowing into the crook of his neck. Morse sighed lightly, then tapped his knee. 

“You’ll give us both a bad neck if you sit like that, come on.” Jakes wanted to pout and protest, because Morse was the right amount of warm and solid anchoring he needed right now. But Morse slid a pillow onto his lap and tapped it. 

They fell into place, Jakes stretched out in his lap, Morse above him, one hand still wrapped around his cup. As they watched their film, laughing every so often at the horrible fakeness of it all, Morse’s hands drifted. They found Jakes’ hair again, and like he often did to his own hair, he tugged on it, tenderly and soft. He curled strands between his fingers, rubbed his thumb across it in soothing patterns. His hair was already beyond saving tonight, so he let Morse keep at it. 

Morse’s touch was so soothing, he found himself drifting off once of twice, missing what were surely key plot points in the film. He’d awaken every so often to Morse laughing at something or other, and carefully glanced up to catch sight of him, eyes alight and lips smiling. From here he could count every freckle on Morse’s chin, and the ones across his neck too. He could see the lamplight shining through his hair, picking out the lighter tones in it and illuminating them. Then his hands would fall back to Jakes’ hair and he found himself swept off to sleep again. 

At some point the film ended, and he woke from the sudden lack of noise and Morse’s knees wriggling beneath him. 

“Come on,” Morse was saying in hushed tones. “Let’s to bed.” 

They stumbled up the stairs, and Morse pushed him towards the bed. It took a little hard work to get his shirt off, so much so Jakes decided against sleeping in one. He let Morse help him with his trousers, too tired for any sort of modesty or flirtation either way. He clambered into bed and nestled himself in the pillows, propping up his plastered arm on a decorative cushion beside him. Morse vanished for a moment, returning in his own nightclothes, a glass of water and packet of pills in hand. 

“Take one of these,” he said offering them both to Jakes. “The pain might not wake you through the night then.” He took them without argument, and yawned, too tired to say or do much more. Morse smiled fondly as Jakes collapsed into his nest of duvet and blankets. He could feel eyes on his as he found the least painful position to sleep in, his bad arm held awkwardly up to his face. 

Yet closing his eyes, hearing Morse turn off the light beside them and curling up beneath the sheets himself, did nothing to bring on sleep. He wasn’t sure quite how long he lay there, staring at the curves in the plaster in the low light, cursing his own foolishness. 

“Morse,” he hissed out into the darkness. “You awake?” 

Morse made a short grunting noise that neither confirmed nor denied it; Morse spoke in his sleep all the time. He lifted his foot and moved it back, to run it along Morse’s leg. That got him another grunt, followed by the sound of Morse rolling over behind him. A hand appeared around his waist, pressing against chest. 

Asleep or not, Morse’s face found his neck, lips crashing clumsily against his neck. 

“G’sleep Pete,” he mumbled. “S’late… some of us got work t’morrow…” 

Somehow, the feel of Morse’s arms around him, warm breath on his shoulders, the sheer presence of Morse behind him, was grounding. He let his eyes drift close, and this time, as he fell asleep, Jakes smiled. 


End file.
